


Down Mexico Way

by RileyC



Category: Philip Marlowe - Raymond Chandler
Genre: Angst, M/M, Regrets, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-03
Updated: 2011-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-23 09:35:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/248856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Terry takes a stroll down memory lane, most of those memories revolving around Marlowe, whom he never expects to see again. Fate can be kind of funny that way, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down Mexico Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mithen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithen/gifts).



> The little bit of description/atmosphere contained herein is drawn from memories of a family vacation in Ensenada, on a summer long ago -- although quite a long ways after when this is supposed to take place.
> 
> And this was written for Mithen, who asked for: Marlowe/Lennox - "First Impressions." Not sure this exactly fits the bill, but it's what popped into my head.

_Ensenada, Baja California  
January 1952_

 

The first time he’d seen Marlowe, Terry Lennox was falling down drunk and Marlowe was coming to his rescue. That’s what Marlowe did – but Terry’d seen something in his eyes, a glint of sympathy, of understanding, that he’d wanted to believe was special and just for him.

The last time Terry looked into those eyes, all he’d seen was disappointment.

Terry regretted that, more than he had regretted anything in a very long time.

Stupid, at his age, to care what anyone thought of him. To want anyone’s respect.

It would be something, though, he thinks, drawing circles on the bar in Hussong’s with his glass of bourbon, something to look in Marlowe’s eyes and see respect. See trust, see … comradely affection. Yes, that was a good euphemism, he decided, raising the glass to his lips – putting it back down without taking a sip.

A knight errant, that’s what Terry had thought of Marlowe. A little tarnish to the the armor, afew dents, trying to shield himself with an appearance of weary cynicism while he fought to slay the dragons of corruption and self-interest that scorched the nobility off everyone and everything.

Everyone but Philip, Terry thought, allowing himself that intimacy in the privacy of his thoughts.

There was a bittersweet aspect to it, how Philip would keep tilting at those windmills, trying to save someone who’d been too goddamn lost for years. Even when Philip knew all he’d get for his efforts was a punch in the gut.

If Terry’d had it him, he would have tried not to let Philip down. He would have _aspired_ to try…

He sighs and shakes his head, not really sure why he’s raking through all this again. It’s not like he can fix the pieces and make it so everything comes out right this time.

Would the way he fixed it even be the way Philip wanted it to be anyway?

Thinking of the last time he’d seen Philip, when for just a moment Terry’d had the idea Philip was waiting for him to – what? Square his shoulders and stand up for himself, show Philip he hadn’t been wrong this time? -- Terry'd _like_ to believe it could have been worth it to try.

Terry wasn’t the man to do that, though. If he ever had been, he’d lost that a long time ago.

Funny how Philip, so sharp, so on the ball about everything else, hadn’t seen that from the start.

Terry’d driven himself a little crazy for awhile, trying to figure out what Philip thought he’d seen in him to make Terry Lennox worth his while. He’d had to conclude Philip had seen some kind or mirage or mirror image, of himself in Terry’s eyes.

No, all things considered, Terry thinks everything would have been better if Philip had just walked on by and left Terry outside that nightclub, falling on his drunken ass.

~*~

Checking the time, Terry steps back from the bar, the bourbon still untouched, and starts for the door, not wanting to be late for the client who’s hired his fishing boat for the day.

Mr. Responsibility – that’s him. If it were really true, of course, he might have told the client that the fishing wasn’t so great in January.

He steps outside, squinting against the sunlight, and heading down to the harbor.

The town’s bustling with energy, trying to sway the American tourists to part with their dollars. The air is redolent with exhaust fumes and the tamales hawked from pushcarts, the salt-and-fish smell of the sea growing stronger as Terry reaches the pier where his little fishing boat his moored.

Quite a comedown, a lot of people would say, him reduced to taking tourists out to try for sand bass, barracuda, and yellowtail. Funny thing is, Terry wouldn’t trade it for anything now. Well, not for much, he considers, thoughts wandering to Philip again.

He boards his boat, gets it ready to head out, not immediately looking around at the footsteps on the pier.

“Senor Mairoranos?”

He pretends not to recognize the voice. He buys himself a couple more seconds to compose himself before he turns and looks and sees … Philip, flanked by a pair of uniformed Federales.

He keeps his eyes off Philip, asks the men what they want.

Terry gets half the story from the Federales, about wanting his cooperation because the man who’s hired his boat is wanted for murder up north, back in Los Angeles; he knows Philip could tell him more, if he could bring himself to ask.  
This private detective, they say, jerking their thumbs at Philip – and Terry flicks his gaze the way they point, getting an impression of a gray suit and a grim expression, and he knows the dragon’s put another dent in Philip’s armor – he’s tailed the suspect here, has some proof the idea for this fishing trip is to dispose of some evidence and then make a clean getaway. Nobody says it, but the implication’s pretty clear that the rest of this plan is to put a knife in Senor Mairoranos’s back and dump his body overboard.

Under the circumstances, Terry finds it easy to go along.

Waiting’s the hard part, with Philip right there, close enough at one point Terry can smell his aftershave.

When it’s over, when the man’s been taken into custody and hauled away, there’s an awkward moment as Terry feels Philip watching him. He’s afraid to raise his head, to meet that gaze.

“Terry.”

Philip’s voice is a whisper, soft as the sea breeze, and oh but it’s wonderful to hear his name on Philip’s lips.

Still, he can’t look, doesn’t think he can bear it – not until Philip touches him, long fingers brushing his shoulder.

“Terry?” he says again, and this time he looks, looks into Philip’s face and feels a warm glow starting deep inside.

“Where do you live?” Philip asks him.

Terry gives him the address and thinks that maybe, every once in a long, long while, you got a chance to make a second first impression.


End file.
